


Five Times it Was Yours and Wade's Fault and One Time it Wasn't.

by Actual_Writing_Trashcan



Series: Colossus Hyperfixation Collection [76]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Sorry Not Sorry, a small glimpse at yours and wade's legendary pranks, also language, also scott gets mean in the last one, and that's scott, and the underlying reason behind scott's eventual heart problems, and verbally aggressive, because i like swearing lol, just a heads up, look there's gotta be that one character, scott gets shit on so much in this series, that gets the shit end of the characterization stick, that trend isn't stopping anytime soon oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23137645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Writing_Trashcan/pseuds/Actual_Writing_Trashcan
Summary: Five times that you and Wade caused some level of destruction and-or chaos at for the X-Men --and one time that it actually wasn't either of your faults.Set before "Questions and Answers" but after "Of First Dates and Not So First Kisses."[All warnings in the tags.]
Relationships: Jean Grey/Scott Summers, Piotr Rasputin/Reader
Series: Colossus Hyperfixation Collection [76]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1079544
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	Five Times it Was Yours and Wade's Fault and One Time it Wasn't.

**1\. El Pantalones Del Fuego, Except the Pants Are Water, and the Water is Your Swimming Pool, and Yeah, It’s Our Fault, but in Our Defense, It Looks Cool.**

“Wade! Y/N!”

The merc-with-a-mouth in question quickly kicks several containers labelled “heptane” behind him and out of view, while you just try to look as innocent as possible. “Yeah?” the two of you answer simultaneously.

Scott Summers, looking suitably shocked and unquestionably enraged, makes various noises of disbelief while gesturing at the swimming pool on Xavier’s property –which, thanks to the wonderful principles of Chemistry, is currently on fire. “How? How did you even do this?”

“We didn’t do anything,” you lie as more residents and students run over to see what’s going on. “This just… happened.”

“No –no! You two absolutely had something to do with thi—”

“It’s _water_ on _fire_ ,” Wade says, barely suppressing the mirth in his voice. “Come on, Clopsie, even _I_ don’t have that kind of power.”

You hide a smirk with your hand as Scott continues to freak out. _Yeah, but chemicals sure do._

* * *

**2\. Granted, We May Not Have a Future as Car Detailers, but This Still Looks Cool. Also, You’re Out of Sticky Notes.**

Fact: The standard Post-It note is three inches long by three inches wide, giving it a surface area of nine square inches.

Fact: Thanks to quote estimates for vehicle wrapping surfaces, you know that the average surface area for a four door sedan is about two hundred forty three-square feet, the average van is around two hundred ninety-seven square feet, and no one seems to have average measurements for SUVs, but most of the quote estimates start at over ten thousand dollars for those, which has to mean something.

Fact: If you try to add all those together, then convert them to inches, then multiply by the number of cars in the garage at the Institute, then divide by the surface area of a sticky note… you quickly remember why you tutor in writing and not in math.

What you do know is that you and Wade stay up the entire night of the thirty-first of March to cover every single “X-Mobile” (save for the jets, because not even Wade is crazy enough to try and cover those in Post-It notes) in sticky notes, and by the time it’s 8:45 AM, you’ve gone through well over two hundred packs of sticky notes, you’re both exhausted as fuck, and every single car has a dick made out of sticky notes somewhere on its body.

You and Wade grin, then exchange equally tired fist bumps.

Scott’s reaction is going to be _legendary_.

* * *

**3\. Look, It Started Out as Wondering if You Could Fill A House With Enough Balloons to Lift It Off Its Foundation, Sort of Like a Bootleg “UP,” and Then We Found Out You Could Order Balloons En Mass from Amazon, and –Look—at Least We Got Latex-Free Balloons, so That Should Count for Something, Right?**

“This was incredibly wasteful, not to mention time consuming—”

“You got that right,” Wade interjects, voice pitched up and squeaky from the helium he keeps inhaling from one of the –many, many, _many_ —balloons that the two of you used to fill the X-Mansion.

As in _the whole mansion_. Every single room, all three floors, and the training rooms, too.

You’d thought your fingers were going to fall off from tying off all the balloons.

(One of Wade’s actually did.)

“I am very disappointed in both of you,” Piotr continues, looking every bit the stern, steel disciplinarian with his arms crossed over his chest and his brow furrowed.

You suck in some helium from a balloon, then grin cheekily up at your boyfriend. “Sorry, baby,” you apologize, voice sounding like a cartoon character’s. “Won’t happen again.”

“ _Dorogoy_ … please.”

“Sorry.” You gulp down regular air until your voice is back at its normal pitch. “Look, we were just trying to see if we could pull an ‘UP’—”

“ _Myshka_.”

You quickly alter course. “Hey, you have to admit that the kids are having a good time with it.”

Piotr looks over at the front of the house, where the students are delightedly shoving balloons out of the open doors and windows and releasing them to the sky, and smiles softly. “Perhaps. But that does not change that you two are in great deal of trouble. Or that you two will have to clean up all mess from prank.”

“We figured,” you say with a reassuring smile.

“We did?” Wade asks.

You kick your honorary brother in the shins to get him to comply, then grin up at your boyfriend. “We’ve got it covered, babe. No worries.”

Piotr fixes Wade with a stern look, but it softens when he looks over at you. He kisses the top of your head –gently, ever mindful of his strength—then heads off to help corral the students, seemingly satisfied with the reception of his lecture.

Wade heaves a sigh next to you. “Man,” he grumbles, voice still squeaky. “Cleaning up is gonna suck.”

“Yeah,” you agree before sucking down more helium to pitch your voice up once more. “And not in the fun way.”

The two of you laugh –then laugh again at how your laughter sounds—and collapse against the front lawn like the delighted dumbass duo you are.

(The clean-up does suck, though.)

* * *

**4\. Okay, Fair Enough, This is a Waste of Food, But We Bought It With Our Own Money, and –Hey—You Have To Admit You Weren’t Expecting It.**

Wade buys the Poptarts. So many Poptarts. More than a year’s supply of Poptarts, even.

He also procures the glue and does glue application, since you’re doing –arguably—the most physically demanding part of the prank.

“What _on Earth_ made you two think that gluing Poptarts to ceiling was a good idea!” Scott snaps, looking like he’s two seconds away from having a coronary.

Which, granted, is basically Mission Accomplished.

“Look, I understand you might suspect Wade,” you start, “but I—”

“Zip it!” Scott snarls, face red and shoulders heaving. “You’re the only person dumb enough to partner up with _that_.” He points at Wade. “So, don’t even try the ‘I’m so innocent’ act that you use on your boyfriend to get away with murder. It’s not going to work on me!”

You narrow your eyes into an irritated glare. “Who the _fuck_ are you calling ‘dumb?’”

* * *

**5\. Hey, All We Did Was What You Asked of Us. Mostly.**

After the “House Full of Balloons” and “Poptarts on the Ceiling” incidents, the two of you are asked to “please, scale back your exploits and consider the wastefulness of your pranks and the ruckus you create, thank you.”

So, you and Wade do just that. No more expensive, house-wide pranks. No more wasting huge amounts of supplies or food.

In fact, the crux of your next prank only takes two cartons of eggs and a roll of duct tape.

See? The two of you can be economical.

And, if the two of you also you industrial strength sealant to shut Scott’s door while he’s gone on an extended mission, no one thinks to comment about it because you do it from the inside. You wouldn’t want to _cause a ruckus, after all_.

And, if you also drape his entire room and everything in it with garbage bags and seal those bags together with duct tape so nothing can get under the edges, it’s because you two don’t want to ruin everything in his room. That would be _wasteful_.

And, if you also hook up several hospital grade air purifiers to continually pump the air out of Scott’s room, it’s because you don’t want his neighbors to deal with any sort of averse smells. That would be _too grand a scale_.

And, if Scott comes home to a room with rotten eggs hanging from the ceiling by strips of duct tape and a slightly maggoty mess on the floor…

Well, that’s no one’s problem but his.

* * *

**+1. This One Actually Wasn’t On Us. Suck It, Scott.**

It happens on a mass school camping trip in the middle of the summer.

The students are out in the middle of an otherwise abandoned, grassy field, working on practicing using their powers by playing games of balloon toss, going through rope climbing courses together, and other fun activities—

And then a car explodes.

There’s a lot of jumping and screaming as the sound of the explosion rockets through the air, then various teachers use their abilities to protect the students and everyone else as random car chunks rain down from the sky.

There’s a moment of silence as everyone stares at the car, in various state of shock—

And then the silence is shattered when Scott Fucking Summers _loses his shit_.

“That does it!” Scott storms over to you and Wade, face redder than ketchup and body trembling with rage. “I have _had it_ with you two destroying Institute property at whatever idiotic whim strikes you!”

“Woah!” Wade holds up his hands defensively. “We didn’t have anything to do with this one!”

“Save it, Scarface! We both know that you’re the only one _insane enough_ to blow up a car—”

“He’s telling the truth, you monumental as -jerk!” you shout (and quickly censoring yourself, to boot), glaring down Scott. “Wade and I didn’t do this! Our pranks might be crazy, expensive, and-or annoying, but we don’t _blow up cars_. Moreover, we don’t put people at risk like that!”

“Do you honestly think anyone’s going to believe that?”

“‘Do you honestly think anyone’s going to believe that?’” you repeat back in an obnoxious, nasal tone. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

“You sanctimonious—”

“Enough!” Piotr storms between you and Scott, causing the shorter man to back up several paces. “I understand frustration and shock, but that does _not_ give you right to lash out at others.”

“Are you kidding me?” Scott screams. “You let her get away with _murder_ —”

“We didn’t do it!” Wade hollers, cutting Scott off.

“The last person on the face of the Earth that I would _ever_ believe—”

“He’s telling the truth, Scott.”

Scott whirls, expression dumbfounded, and stares at his girlfriend, Jean. “What? Are you kidding me? You’re saying that _you_ believe them?”

“Clarissa did it,” Jean says firmly, arms wrapped around a weeping second-grader’s shoulders. “It was an accident. She lost control of her powers.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because she told me,” Jean states flatly, expression one of irritation. “And because I can read minds.”

“Wilson’s mind can’t be read!”

“But Y/N’s _can_. And she’s telling the truth about _both_ of them having nothing to do with the car exploding.” Jean narrows her eyes at her boyfriend. “Unless you think I’m lying.”

Scott flounders for a moment, then slowly realizes that everyone else –staff, teachers, and students—is staring at him.

“Go cool off for bit,” Piotr says to him, nodding in the direction of the tents.

“I don’t need—"

“Go. Cool. Off.”

Scott seems to size up the situation –chiefly, him versus three hundred plus pounds of angry, grade A Russian beef—and quickly beats feet towards the tents.

“Suck it, bitch,” Wade mutters under his breath as he watches Scott go. “Suck it so hard.” His expression goes stormy for a moment, and then it brightens again as he turns to face you. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you say after a moment as you watch Scott with unease. “I’m fine.”


End file.
